


Keeping Limber

by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adrenaline, Blood, Boys Kissing, Hand Jobs, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Slash, Sparring, Violence, i don't know how else to tag this., texts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee/pseuds/thegirlinthedeathfrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On occasion, a bit of violence is just what the doctor ordered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping Limber

**Author's Note:**

> I’m having way too much fun in present tense. I know I should stop, because it’ll get redundant soon enough, but for now… well, I’m going with it. Especially since it usually doesn’t quite come naturally to me. Also, this idea has been floating around in my head. And I’ve tried submitting it for an RP (Yes. Yes, you may find me on Omegle on occasion.) but it seems as though no one is interested.
> 
> Point is, a little tale I wanted to write. Probably pretty OOC but woops, my give-a-fuck must be broken today. Just for today though, don’t worry. Happy reading, hopefully.

_I need your assistance. SH_

_  
_The text comes through with a brief chirp, one that is entirely too cheerful for Sherlock’s text. As a rule, if John looks to his phone and finds such a message, he can be guaranteed the outcome will not include a quiet night of telly. He sighs, considering what may transpire if he were to ignore such a text. “He’d keep on.” he mutters to himself, as though it’s obvious. It _is_  obvious. Sherlock would incessantly message him, fill up his inbox with berating texts until John finally replied.

He slides the phones screen up and taps into the keyboard:

_With what?_

Seconds later, Sherlock’s reply comes through, as though it’s already been drafted. 

_Research for a case._

_  
_Bugger. John sighs as he looks at the text. That could be any number of things, most of which he’s certain will end up with him damaged in some form or other. He considers telling him to bugger off, that he’s got a date, that he’d rather keep all his limbs, but he relents quite easier than he should and replies:

_Alright. But I’d better keep all my limbs._

He settles his phone beside him once again, looking to save the draft of his latest blog post when it lights up once again. He doesn’t pick it up, merely glances down at the screen and opens the message.

_Sitting room, five minutes. Limber up._

John’s brows furrow. “Limber up?” he mumbles to himself. Were they going for a run? Was he to attempt to mimic a contortionist? He frowns and saves his post, shutting his laptop to stand. “Limber up.” he mutters once again. He’s not sure how Sherlock means, but instinctively he begins stretching. He crosses each arm over his chest, pulling each as tight as he can. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his spine. He twists his abdomen, feels the telltale cracking of vertebrae near his lower back.

He’s not sure what else he’s to do. John ambles out of his room, halfheartedly stretching his legs as he does so. He rolls his neck as he walks into the sitting room, where Sherlock is sliding John’s arm chair into the kitchen. “You’ve sparred before, yes?” Sherlock asks with a grunt. He lifts the side table from its spot and places it beside John’s chair. John quirks an eyebrow. “Erm… well, yeah. Had to, haven’t done it in a long, long while…” he replies, watching as Sherlock pushes his own armchair as far into the wall as he possibly can. 

Sherlock nods, rolling his neck and shoulders quickly. He pulls his arms back,  stretching his chest, then looks to John. “You’ve limbered, yes?”

“Yeah, Sherlock. What’s going on?”

Sherlock eyes him quickly, surveys his body language and posture, then meets his eyes. “I need to recreate a brawl as closely as I physically can.” he explains. John stares, bewilderment evident. “The victim in question was—coincidentally—quite your build, with a rather similar military background. Based on such, I am relatively certain that—upon employing you in an altercation—your reactions may be similar.” Sherlock continues, quite casually, as he continues his few stretches. “I’ve already a choreography of hits I’m to implement, based on a detailed retelling from both the attacker and present witnesses. Therefore, your role is to fend me off as you would had I been attacking you.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” John says after a moment. “You’re saying we’re going to fight.”

“Correct.”

“You’re going to do _all_  the same things this other bloke did, right?”

“To the best of my abilities, yes.”

“So… you’re going to attempt to _kill me_?” He asks, his tone rising in pure astonishment. Sherlock rolls his eyes, finally settling himself into a simple stand. “I’m obviously not going to attempt to  _kill you_ , John, do use your common sense. In fact, quite the opposite.” He sticks his hands into his pockets, lifting on the balls of his feet for a moment in what looks like glee. John’s eyebrows are still pulled inward in concern. Sherlock sighs, obviously annoyed at John’s lack of understanding. “The man in question  _didn’t_  murder the victim, as is being said at current.” he says. “The only time the two made any sort of physical contact was a brawl in an alley. As he’s the last person to have made physical contact with the victim, he’s being held for it.”

“How’d the victim die?”

“Blunt trauma to the head. However, no visible bruising.”

“Hitting him would’ve left a mark though.”

“Unless he was hit with an object that wouldn’t leave bruising.”

John is certain his face is going to be stuck in the pure confusion it’s being held in. “So… we’re going to fight to…”

“We’ll be engaging in a brief, choreographed spar so I may observe the way in which the victim may have reacted to his assailant. From this, I’ll have surmised enough evidence to clear the assailant’s case.” 

John still isn’t quite sure he understands what exactly is about to happen. He doesn’t understand the purpose, anyhow. But he agrees either way with a quick shrug of his shoulders. 

Both of them seem to instantly tense, as though the mention of violence has caused a ripple to make its way through them. “Your reactions are to be authentic as possible, do you understand?” Sherlock says, and his voice has already taken on a slight edge to it. John nods, quick and efficient enough to be a confirmation.

There is a pause. Neither seem to move. Both seem to be waiting for the other. Electricity zips through the air, teasing and tickling each nerve on each mans skin. John’s fingers curl instinctively into fists. Every muscle in his back tenses. He’s ready. He’s waiting.

And then Sherlock lunges forward. 

He isn’t as prepared as he thought he was. John realizes this as Sherlock’s fist seems to make contact with his stomach. He exhales hard around it, winded for a moment. But his body is already ahead of him, reacting instantly, grabbing at Sherlock’s arms and forcing him away. He springs into his own action, knocking Sherlock with a quick, hard punch to his face.

Sherlock stumbles at the contact, but only briefly. He is, despite the circumstance, on a mission, and it shows in the way he moves. He strikes once again, delivering a blow to John’s stomach once again, causing another breath to fail him. 

John is starting to forget his purpose. With every blow Sherlock delivers, it fades from his mind more and more. He is feeling attacked.  _Very_  attacked. So much so that he’s found his heart is racing. Adrenaline is coursing through him, his mind is fogging, and he’s just on the cusp of losing it when Sherlock speaks.

“You’re not even  _trying_ , John. Come on, fight back!” He growls, anger seeping from his voice. It’s obvious he’s been struck with that rush of adrenaline, too, has accidentally succumbed to the primal instinct of masculinity.

It tips him over. He can’t help himself. He’s no longer just a participant in some sort of bizarre research, he is now fighting, defending himself, looking to annihilate his opposition. 

With a growl, he spreads his arms wide and rushes forward. He heaves his shoulder into Sherlock’s ribs and wraps his arms around his middle, taking him to the ground in a single swoop. Sherlock’s teeth are bared, and he’s grunting as he’s attempting to fight John off of him, flailing his legs and squirming and shoving John’s shoulders hard. He boxes him around the ears and, for a moment, it does cause John to move as though he’ll release his hold. However, he doesn’t. He shakes his head, as though attempting to clear his disorientation, and instead reaches up and plants a loose fist against Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock retaliates with a firm one into John’s exposed nose.

It doesn’t break, thankfully, but he feels the blood begin to pool in his nostrils. Somehow, the rush comes faster. His heart hammers harder, quicker in his chest. His blood is traveling at lightening speed, but his mind is a little hazy. He tucks his elbow into Sherlock’s stomach, forces it into his diaphragm, and Sherlock coughs at his sudden lack of air.

John feels Sherlock’s knees clench tight into his sides. He’s pinning him. His mind knows this, knows the proper maneuver that will free him from such, but his body doesn’t respond quick enough. He feels his entire body flip as Sherlock heaves the two of them over, landing John on his back and Sherlock straddling his hips. John attempts to fight back. He bucks his hips, attempts to get Sherlock from him, but he’s trapped between Sherlock’s knees. He attempts to sit upright, throws a punch that lands directly into Sherlock’s mouth, one that causes Sherlock’s lip to split and instantly begin to bleed. However, it doesn’t unseat him. He keeps his knees locked into John’s sides and defends his spot thoroughly.

He’s not sure what happened after that, if he’s being honest. 

He remembers a few swings from either of them, connecting with jaws and eyes and cheeks. He knows his heart was racing, thumping wildly, thrashing in his chest as though unhinged. He knows he grabbed at Sherlock’s shirt, the pressed white one that was now stained with someones blood, and knows that a button or two popped off as he did so.

What he can’t remember is when they began kissing.

But they are. Sherlock is leaned all the way over. He’s got John’s wrists in his hands and he’s pinning them to the floor. His mouth is definitely over John’s. John can taste the iron of Sherlock’s blood on his tongue. And he’s going with it. No, not going with it. Enjoying it.  _Thoroughly_  enjoying it. He is, in fact, relishing it, savoring the movement of Sherlock’s mouth against his. He doesn’t seem to feel the need to ask questions. 

He frees his wrists from Sherlock’s grip and reaches up, grabbing into Sherlock’s hair and forcefully bringing him harder onto him. He’s excited,  _too_  excited, feeling ridiculously over-zealous and elated. Sherlock can’t seem to figure out where he’d like to put his hands. They move all over, from John’s sides to his chest to his shoulders, in some sort of circle, until they finally cup themselves around John’s neck. 

He’s quivering. He hasn’t realized it until that moment, but John is very literally vibrating beneath Sherlock. He drags his hands from Sherlock’s hair and down his back, feeling his way over every lean muscle, until he finds his hips. It’s instinctual, the way he touches him, how he forces Sherlock’s hips harder onto his. 

Sherlock breathes into his mouth, shuddering breaths that only seem to entice matters further. John tugs Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers in quick, aggressive pulls and forces his hands beneath it. Sherlock’s skin is warm to the touch. No, not warm. Hot. Scalding hot, it seems. But John likes it, likes the burn against his fingertips. He likes Sherlock’s reaction even more, that arching of his back, as though he too can feel flames against him. 

John can feel Sherlock’s hands beginning to shake. It’s not very noticeable, not visually, but they creep beneath the simple shirt John wears and press against his bare ribs. They’re trembling, just a hint of a quiver, but against John’s skin it’s very evident, as though earthquakes have replaced his nimble fingers. Sherlock runs his hands down the length of John’s body in a rather deliberate way, one that says he’s taking a split second to observe and study and memorize the way it feels. It’s short lived. The moment passes as he grips at the bottom of John’s shirt and begins inching it upward rather forcefully. John arches and squirms in response, releases his hold of Sherlock’s body to allow him to free John of his shirt. 

John takes this opportunity to tear through the remaining buttons of Sherlock’s top. He has the insatiable urge to feel him, to have Sherlock’s bare body against his own and to let his nerves get a feel for it. The moment the last button is undone, he snakes his arms around Sherlock’s bare waist and squeezes him toward him. 

And oh, is it perfect. It is, John knows this. Although he is used to the body of a woman, to supple breasts and soft curves and scents like rose or cherry blossom, Sherlock’s body feels  _remarkable_. It is smooth, but hard, and lean, and it seems to slot so perfectly with John’s that it’s almost baffling to think about. Their lips crush together once again and John isn’t sure where this is going, but he knows he’s officially along for the ride.

John doesn’t seem to recollect getting to where they end up. He knows that things get heated, hotter than they’d already been. Their lips smash harsh and fast against one another, their tongues seem to spark with every collision. Hands are everywhere at once, groping and grabbing and feeling their way to every bare inch of skin they can find. He’s managed to be on top, has somehow forgotten the moment in which he forced Sherlock onto his back. Sherlock’s hands are fumbling between them, working desperately at the fly of John’s trousers. Sherlock’s is already undone. 

He feels Sherlock’s mouth against his throat and suddenly his hands are down John’s pants. His long fingers are wrapping themselves around John and the touch is practically electric. It might as well be, with the intensity of the shock that seems to flow up John’s spine. Sherlock’s touches start experimental, as though he’s unsure, as though testing his theories about such acts. He’s quick though, John finds, and his experimental touches turn quite confident. 

John feels as though he should be reciprocating, should be touching Sherlock similarly, but the angle is awkward and his body isn’t of much use to him anyway. Not while Sherlock is touching him like that. Not while he’s being stroked and caressed in all the right ways. His brain has gone to mush. He’s nothing but nerve endings, all of them alight at the exact same moment. 

He musters up some of his brain power. The little that’s left, it seems. He situates himself more comfortably, slides his hand down the length of Sherlock’s body until he feels the waistband of Sherlock’s pants. He dips his hand beneath the elastic and takes hold of Sherlock. 

Sherlock gasps. His face seems to contort in pure shock. It has, apparently, be quite a long while. 

Both are apparently quite unfamiliar with how to handle another man, but neither seem to mind that much. They don’t seem to mind at all, more like. Sherlock writhes beneath John, hips rolling up into John’s hand and mouth clinging to whichever bit of John he can grab. John’s pelvis is thrusting quite similarly. He’s panting, and he’s not sure he’ll be holding out much longer. Their hips seem bump in awkward, perfect, ridiculous rhythm, colliding and sliding over each other in all the right ways. Neither man can bite back the gasps and grunts and sighs that force their way from their lips.

Everything is sweat and blood and sex, and it dances on their skin and in their mouths harmoniously.

It is Sherlock who finishes first. It’s with a strangled gasp, with a whimper and teeth marks left in John’s neck that he does so. The feel of Sherlock’s mouth, of his hips, of his body tensing and releasing, is enough to tip John over just the same. He is definitely more primal, more animal than Sherlock. He groans and breathes so hard he’d be close to hyperventilating, and ends with a deeply satisfied sigh.

His arms are suddenly quite weak. John can’t help his collapse, his head falling into Sherlock’s chest. He can hear Sherlock’s heart beat, a drum-roll where a beating organ should be. He listens to it until it begins to slow, until the euphoria begins to wind down and it is left to drumming normally once again.

“Well.” Sherlock’s voice says suddenly. There’s no malice in it. There’s no particular glee in it. It’s tone is much more amused than anything else. “I am almost certain that the victim’s brawl did  _not_  end in this fashion.” 

John can’t help the familiar stirrings of laughter that make their way up into his throat. He hasn’t moved, is still resting upon Sherlock’s body, but he finds himself beginning to giggle. He can feel Sherlock doing the same, his body vibrating with quiet chuckles. “Don’t think there would’ve been a court case if it had.” John replies between laughs. Because that’s what has happened. The quiet giggling and chuckling has turned into actual laughter. Nearly hysterical. Neither are quite certain why they’re laughing so hard. Both are certain the matter isn’t call for such fits of hysterics. But they can’t help it. It’s sort of funny. 

Sherlock’s hands come to rest tentatively on John’s back. He can feel them sear his skin, his fingertips easily fitting into the line of John’s spine. It takes a moment for him to settle down enough to function once again, but when he does, he props himself up onto his elbows and looks to Sherlock’s face. He’s red. No, pink. He’s been laughing, of course. But his eyes are bright and his hair is stuck out attractively and he’s got a smear of blood across his chin and the makings of a black eye. He doesn’t want to think of what he looks like himself, but Sherlock’s lips curl into a little smile as he looks over John’s face. “You okay?” he asks suddenly, as though the question needs asking.

Sherlock gives a small nod. “All right. You?”

John shrugs. “Could be worse.” he says easily. “I was expecting a quiet night in but I suppose this works just as well.”

“Which part? The part in which we accidentally divert from the original recreation and literally  _fight_ , or the part in which it ends in us managing to  _get off_  with one another.”

John’s brows furrow thoughtfully. “Well, it was a sequence of events, wasn’t it? Couldn’t have one without the other.” The conversation is so casual, it’s as though they may have been talking about grocery shopping. It’s almost unnerving. John would’ve expected much more turmoil, more awkwardness, more…  _something_. But it’s relatively relaxed, normal feeling even, as though it’s something they do daily.

“Well, we should probably clean up a bit.” John says after a moment. He makes to move, to shift away, but Sherlock keeps his hands on John’s spine. In fact, the more John makes to lift himself, the harder Sherlock’s hands press into him. John’s eyebrows crease in confusion as, for the third time, Sherlock forces John back to his body. Sherlock doesn’t reply. He still has that tiny smile on his lips.

John is about to protest, about to talk about how sticky they are, how there is blood on Sherlock’s face, but he doesn’t get the opportunity. Sherlock’s head comes up to meet him, and he presses a very gentle, very warm kiss to John’s lips. 

Well, of course John kisses back. It’s instinctual. He already knows the way Sherlock’s mouth works, how his lips feel, and he likes it. So why not? He’s not sure what it means. He knows adrenaline caused them to short circuit, knows that they wound up in a heap of one another because of it. And maybe this kiss was just an afterglow, a coming-off sort of feeling. But Sherlock kisses him, and his eyes shut as though he’s surrendering to the feeling, and John likes it, so he does himself a favor and leans himself further into it. 

Semantics? They can talk about that later. When Mrs. Hudson comes up and finds them still on the floor, claiming stake over one another’s mouths. When they have to make a decision between scrambling for their trousers or shooing her away. When they eventually have to patch themselves up and properly recall what had happened.

For now, they’ll lay on the dreadfully hard wooden floor, beside the rapidly dying fire, and they’ll kiss as though it’s nothing new. 


End file.
